The Duke with the Dragon Tattoo (Victorian Rebels, #6)(46)

Lorelai turned to the porthole window, their eye to the sea, and found that they’d somehow turned so an emerald coastline loomed in the distance. The Isle of Mull. The stronghold of the Blackheart of Ben More.

“Should my hoary kingdom not impress, I’ve plenty of land holdings and the applicable titles to offer you,” he continued. “For example, I’m the Duke of Castel Domenico in Italy. The Comte de Lyon et de Verdun in France, and—”

“You’re a duke?” She nearly spurted coffee across the table.

“Well, a Continental one, but I believe it’s still apropos to address me as Your Grace.”

No, he had to be lying. “How … how did you…?”

“Easily. I killed the previous one, but not before he named me his heir. Many Continental titles are not so entailed to primogeniture as English ones.”

Lorelai had rarely been stunned so witless in her life. “You killed the…”

He held up a water-wrinkled finger. “To be fair, most of them tried to kill me first.”

Most of them? “Does life mean so little you would discard it with such indifference?”

“Categorically.”

“What happened to you?” she cried. “When did you decide to become such a villain?”

When were you on the Continent? she wanted to rail at him. And why didn’t you come for me then?

His words from the prior night drifted back to her. I waited to inflict myself on you for as long as I could … It’s the only kindness I can afford you. In this moment, she didn’t know whether to be grateful, or angry.

Gods, but he sent her emotions scrambling in so many directions, she felt caught in the web of the most confounding, dangerous spider on earth.

His gaze became a dreadful void, swirling with a darkness so abysmally black, she feared that if she looked for too long, she’d find the depths of hell. “That is a story I do not wish to tell,” he said in a voice as cold as the Arctic Sea. “And one you do not wish to hear.”

She believed him. And yet … She did want to hear it. She wanted to know. To understand. But did she want to picture the sort of torments that could have torn Ash away from himself?

Categorically not.

“Come over here,” he ordered. “I wish for you to wash my back.”

“But I—I’m not done with my breakfast.”

“Yes you are.”

She meant to argue with him, but then she glanced down at her empty plate.

“Will you go back on your word?” His challenge landed harshly in the lush opulence of his quarters. “You promised me anything.”

So he kept reminding her.

Sighing, she slid her chair back and pushed to her feet. She approached him cautiously, as she did those wounded, wild animals, and his demeanor contained just as much lethal ferocity.

She’d wanted to run her fingers across his winged tattoos, hadn’t she?

Here was her chance.

After rolling up her sleeves, she perched behind him on the tub, picked up a cloth and soap, and dawdled by creating more lather than necessary before she touched the cloth to his back.

Anxiety had leached the heat from her fingers, and the warmth of his water-heated skin immediately radiated through her, lancing up her arm. She’d been right, he was solid as stone and smooth as marble. The feel of him was as familiar as it was foreign. She’d washed him before, long ago. She’d run her fingers over these very same long, lovely muscles. Sometimes, her fingers found a ridge beneath the artwork. Scars, she realized. Wounds. Ones he’d covered with ink and time. He’d been scarred as a boy, but not like this. They were everywhere. Some of them shallow and wide, others long and deep.

Who had hurt him like this? Who would dare?

Mortimer?

“Heroes and villains…” he mused, a husky note was added to his already resonant voice. “Must men be defined thusly? There are none of either in the animal kingdom. There are only those who eat, and those who are eaten. The strong prey on the weak. There is an order to things. You adapt and survive … Or you die.”

“Yes,” Lorelai conceded. “But you are not a beast.”

“Am I not?” His chin touched his glistening shoulder. “That may be the kindest thing anyone has said to me in ages.”

“I meant you are human.” She’d not meant to show him kindness. Had she?

“Some believe man to be a higher form of animal. The king of beasts.”

“You certainly are a predator,” she accused. “And I have become your unwilling prey.”

“Think that if you like.” His jaw hardened as he stared forward again. “I’m a conqueror. You are the conquered. To the victor go the spoils. You’re the one who’s lived among wild creatures your whole life, you should understand how this works. How many beasts apologize to their mates after taking them? What happens, Lorelai, when a powerful male creature wants a female? Does he woo her with flowers and poetry and pretty manners? Does she entice him with a dowry and a family name? No. The male fights off every other who would have her, he dominates them, kills them if he must. Then, he claims her. And she lets him, because he has proven himself the strongest. He can pro tect her and their offspring. It is the way of things in the wild, and so it is with us.”

Lorelai’s trembling fingers dropped the cloth, and it slowly disappeared beneath the opaque surface. She was glad he wasn’t looking at her, that he couldn’t see her chin wobbling. Or her thighs trembling. “It doesn’t have to be thus,” she ventured.